Inspector Imanishi Investigates

Imanishi had not expected to hear all these good things about Miki Ken’ichi, although he remembered the words that Miki’s adopted son had spoken: that he was a good person, like Buddha.

“But you probably need more than just my report,” the station chief added. “I know just the person you should talk to. He’s not here, but lives in Kamedake, where Miki-san was stationed. I told him that you would be coming, so he’s expecting you.”

“Yes, and who is this person?”

“Kamedake produces high-quality abacuses that are known throughout the country as Izumo abacuses,” the station chief explained. “The person I mentioned is an abacus maker named Kirihara Kojuro. His is the top old-style establishment in Kamedake. Kirihara-san was close to Miki-san at one time. Since you’ve come all the way from Tokyo, I think it’s best if you go and inquire directly.”

“I’d certainly like to meet Kirihara-san.”

“Kamedake is a ways from here. There is a bus that goes there, but it doesn’t run very often. I’ve arranged for you to use the station jeep.”

“I’d like to ask you something that may seem a bit strange,” Imanishi said.

“Yes, what is it?”

“Listening to you talk, I don’t hear any difference from standard Japanese. Forgive my impoliteness, but I can’t hear any of the local accent in your speech.”

The station chief laughed and answered, “That’s because I’m not using the local dialect on purpose. The younger people these days use the local speech less and less.”

“Why is that?”

“The people of this region are ashamed of their countrified accent. That’s why we speak standard Japanese when we talk to outsiders. And when we go to Shinji, we tend not to use the local dialect when we get close to town. I guess we have an inferiority complex. The local dialect has a terrible zu-zu accent. Nowadays, only elderly people or those from deep in the mountains speak it.”

“How about in Kamedake?”

“Let me see. Kamedake is probably different. Kirihara-san is elderly, so his accent is thicker than mine. But when you go to speak to him, he will probably avoid using the local dialect.”

Actually, it was the local dialect that Imanishi had come all this way to hear.

Riding in the jeep the station chief so thoughtfully provided, Imanishi headed for Kamedake.

Kamedake Station was three miles from Minari Station. The distance from Kamedake Station to Kamedake village, though, was another three miles. When they entered the village, Imanishi saw that old, thatch-roofed houses lined Kamedake’s central section. Some had stones on the roofs as did houses in the north.

The jeep drove on and stopped in front of the large estate that belonged to Kirihara Kojuro.

The driver preceded Imanishi through the gate. Imanishi was surprised at the elegant landscaping of the garden attached to the house. As they slid open the front door, a man in his sixties wearing a gauze haori jacket came out to greet them as if he had been waiting for them.

The policeman introduced him to Imanishi, saying, “This is Kirihara Kojuro-san.”

“It must have been difficult for you to travel so far in this heat,” Kirihara Kojuro greeted him graciously.

The old man’s hair was white; he was as thin as a crane; and he had a long face with narrow eyes. “I apologize for the poor condition of my abode but please come in,” he said in heavily accented tones.

“I’m sorry to impose on you.”

Imanishi followed the master of the house along the polished hallway that was also the veranda. From this hallway he could see the beautiful rock and water garden. The master led Imanishi into a tearoom. Imanishi was surprised once again-he had not expected to see such an elegant tearoom so deep in the mountains. On his way into the village he had seen only poor farmhouses.

The master indicated that Imanishi should sit in the guest’s seat and proceeded to whisk a ritual cup of tea. It was the hottest time of day, and the pungently bitter taste of the tea eased some of Imanishi’s fatigue. The tea utensils were of the highest quality. Imanishi, who had little knowledge of Tea Ceremony ritual, was stirred to comment on them.

“These aren’t really worthy of your praise.” Kirihara bowed formally. “In our countryside, we don’t have much, but the custom of the Tea Ceremony is our heritage from times past. Matsudaira Fumaiko was the lord of Izumo, so the Way of Tea has stayed with us.”

Imanishi nodded. He now understood why the garden was landscaped in the Kyoto style, even in such a remote place.

“It’s embarrassing for us to have someone from Tokyo see this – but this is all we have.” Saying this much, Kirihara Kojuro stopped as if something had occurred to him and peered at Imanishi’s face. “Well, I’ve been rambling on. The police chief has asked me to tell you all I know about Miki Ken’ichi- san.”

Imanishi had been listening closely to Kirihara for some time now and he could detect an accent in the elderly Kirihara’s speech. Though slightly different from the Tohoku dialect, it sounded remarkably similar.

“I think the police chief must have already told you,” Imanishi began, “Miki Ken’ichi- san recently met with an unfortunate death in Tokyo.”

“I still can’t believe it!” The old man’s delicate face filled with anger. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have imagined that a person like Miki Ken’ichi would have been murdered. I can’t conceive of the kind of hatred that must have caused it. You still haven’t been able to find the killer?”

“Unfortunately, we haven’t found a likely suspect yet. Knowing that Miki-san had been a policeman, we are determined to find his murderer. That’s why I’ve come to find out about his past from you.”

Kirihara nodded seriously. “Please avenge his death. A person who would kill such a man is unforgivable.”

“I understand that in the past you and Miki-san were close.”

“Miki-san served as a policeman at our substation for about three years. It’s rare to find such an upstanding policeman. Even after he retired and opened up his shop near Tsuyama, we corresponded for quite a while, though in the last few years, we haven’t kept up.”

Imanishi explained the situation to the old man who listened attentively. “We’ve concluded that, since there didn’t seem to be anyone who hated him in Emi-machi where he was living, the cause might be here, in the distant past when he had been a policeman. You may think that something that occurred twenty years ago couldn’t have any relation to the present, but we don’t have any other leads. I won’t be asking you for anything specific, I would just like you to tell me what you remember about Miki-san.”

Kirihara’s face relaxed a bit. He was still sitting formally with his legs folded under him. “Miki- san was still young when he came to our police station. Our ages weren’t that far apart, so we became friends. I indulge in a little haiku poetry, and Miki-san joined me, composing some himself.”

Imanishi’s eyes brightened in spite of himself. “Hm. That’s the first I’ve heard of this. He was a haiku poet, was he?”

“Well, there has been a lot of haiku written in this area. Every year, haiku poets from Matsue and Yonago, even as far away as Hamada, come all the way to our village meeting. A long time ago, Shikin, a haiku master who was a direct literary descendant of the famous Basho, came to Izumo and stayed for a long time in this house. His stay established Kamedake’s reputation for haiku.”

“Yes, I see.” Imanishi’s interest was obvious. But he wanted to get beyond his personal interests and hear more about Miki. The old gentleman, however, seemed reluctant to leave this topic and went on.

“At the time that Shikin was staying here, all the haiku poets in the Chugoku region would gather here in Kamedake. I still have the family heirloom, a box the poets used to put the topics in before they’d draw the one they’d have to write about. It was made by a carpenter named Murakami Kichigoro and built like a puzzle box, which can’t be opened easily unless you know the secret. As you know, Kamedake is the source of Unshu abacuses, and Murakami Kichigoro was the original maker of these abacuses. There, excuse me for wandering from the point.” The elder Kirihara laughed at himself. “We old folks seem to spend a long time talking about other things. I’ll show you the puzzle box later. Anyway, Miki-san came over often for haiku and other reasons, and we were well acquainted. He was like a member of my own family. There aren’t many like him.”

“Was Miki-san married when he came to Kamedake?”